


The Bright One

by katiebour



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 14:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17225558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: Prince Montag becomes Lucio.





	The Bright One

There were few things Montag loved as much as a battlefield.

Especially at times like this, after the screaming, the clanging of blades, the chaos, all of it wearing down into groans, rattles of the dying, red drying into brown as it mixed with the mud and snow.

Thrusting his blades into a dying man's chest, he felt the same rush of power, of survival, of _winning._

Fighting was good. Winning was better.

He'd met up with these Nopalese mercs a few months after leaving the Southern forest. It was warmer here in the North, and his ease in the winter snows made him stand out from these children. He played their children's games, fighting for whichever 'king' flashed the most gold, walking season by season over the cities of the coast as civil war raged on.

He had become known amongst the men as a merciless conqueror, planning winter raids where they carried off what they could, burnt the rest. Let the children fend for themselves, as he had, so long ago. He hid in the northern forests, bided his time, and any that came seeking his band found themselves pursued relentlessly.

They were winning, and winning was good.

The current 'king' might even give him one of those cities and a title to go with it, Montag mused. It might be entertaining to retire in glory to a warm summer palace, his birthright at last fulfilled while the Scourge of the South lived in their dank huts, shivering next to holes in the ice, hoping to catch some bottom-feeder. Let them worship their dead god- _he_ knew better.

He wiped his knives clean on a dead man's tunic, and pondered idly having a coat made in a strong oxblood red. It was hard to keep good clothes clean, and bloodstains were damned inconvenient.

A couple of subordinates were off to the side, he caught them sneaking glances his way, mixed admiration and fear. He caught a few words of their conversation in that damnable Nopalese tongue, “- _el lucio...”_

“What,” he snapped, and they straightened up.

“That was one of ours, Prince Montag,” the shorter one answered, and Lucio looked down at the man dying at his feet. So it was.

Montag shrugged. “A man who can't crawl off the battlefield is dead weight. Now he's just dead. Problem solved.” He smiled carelessly. “Now, what was it you were saying over there, in your tongue? Loosie? What does that mean?”

The man stammered. “The men call you _el lucio_ , my prince. It means 'bright,'” and gestured towards his hair, then at Montag's. “Bright, you see, like gold, and skin bright also.” He shrank back as Montag examined the edge on one of his knives for nicks. “And the fish, _el lucio._ It is strong, fierce, waiting in water to attack. A hard fish to catch!”

“Hm,” Montag said, considering. “El lucio. I like it.” He flipped his knife and slid it into its sheath expertly, and took stock of the surroundings. “Gather the men, scavenge what we need. We march for Vesuvia at dawn.” He raised the standard, signalling the end of battle, and a ragged cheer went up.

“Yes, my prince,” the man answered, and strode off to give the orders.

Over the battlefield, a chant began, drowning out the screams of the wounded in the chirugeon's tents, growing in volume.

_El lucio, el lucio, el lucio!_

Montag- no, _Lucio_ , he corrected himself mentally, raised his hand in acknowledgment, and decided that it was a fine name. Let Montag die in the snows of the south. Lucio would rise from the ashes in the North!


End file.
